


it's so simple (and you know it is)

by badtemperedchocolate



Category: Bon Appétit Test Kitchen RPF, Chef RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-06 18:01:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20511167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badtemperedchocolate/pseuds/badtemperedchocolate
Summary: Brad manages not to make more than a handful of jokes about going to Hungary.





	it's so simple (and you know it is)

**Author's Note:**

> This is completely and totally fictional.

After the production schedule gets finalized, Brad manages not to make more than a handful of jokes about taping an episode of _It’s Alive_ in Hungary.

(But seriously. “Hungary.” _Hungry_. He’s a chef. It’s funny, right? It’s totally funny. He doesn’t know why Claire keeps groaning every time he says it.)

* * *

He has a great time in Budapest, meets some awesome bakers and brewers. They make delicious bread and beer and he amuses them by trying to pronounce literally anything in Hungarian, ever.

It’s a good trip, taping goes smoothly, and miracle of miracles, he stays on schedule.

His flight back to New York leaves late, so he takes some time in the morning to just stroll on the street near his hotel, wandering in and out of the shops he passes.

And that’s when he sees it.

It catches his eye, a flash of color, and he can’t help but stop and wander into the little shop to find himself surrounded by colorful fabric, embroidery, lace and needlework and all sort of delicate handcrafted things.

The scarf he saw is in the window. It’s soft – he doesn’t really know fabric, but it’s so soft – and embroidered with flowers, colorful and graceful, sort of tumbled around each other in a careful pattern. It’s tidy and cheerful and sweet. He can’t explain it, but it’s perfect. It’s _her._

Of course he buys it. It’s not really a conscious thought as he takes it to the counter. The bright-eyed older woman running the shop smiles. “Ah, yes,” she coos in heavily accented English. “Very nice. I make this.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“This is _kalocsa_. My grandmother teach me this pattern. Very old, very good Hungarian.” She beams at him as she folds it neatly and wraps it in paper, tying it with a little bit of ribbon. “For a lady, yes? A lady you like?”

“Uh – yeah.” He has no idea how to explain the nature of his relationship with Claire Saffitz in general, let alone to a complete stranger halfway across the world for whom English is a second or third language. “A real good friend.”

* * *

Back in the States, ready for work again, Brad gets to the kitchen early.

It’s alive with activity as usual; Gaby beams at him, tells him welcome back. Chris shows him some crazy complicated new recipe he’s trying out. It’s always nice coming back to work, despite the jetlag. The kitchen is a lot of things, but it’s sure as hell never boring.

He ties on his apron and tells himself he’s concentrating, not watching the door through the corner of his eye, waiting to see when she’ll show up.

An hour later, Claire walks in with her iced coffee. Flashes him a fond smile. Asks how his trip was. Teases him about remembering what time zone he’s in.

But there are people all around the kitchen, and he feels suddenly, inexplicably self-conscious. His gut tells him to hang back. So he does.

* * *

All day, the little paper-wrapped parcel burns a hole in his pocket, and he’s tempted to just ignore the whole thing. Maybe he’s overstepping. Maybe it’s too forward.

Maybe he’s just imagined everything.

Maybe she won’t like it.

But then Claire looks up from her station for no reason, and her eyes meet his, and the soft warmth in her smile just hits him square in the chest, a bolt to the heart, and he’s about four seconds from leaping over his workstation and shoving aside her mixing bowl to take her hand and profess something a hell of a lot like undying love, because when she looks at him like that it’s all he can think about, and so in the grand scheme of things, is a scarf really such a big deal?

Well, it is. It’s _her_. So it is.

He’s a fucking sap and he knows it, but when their eyes meet across a room and her smile is bright with that limpid, sweet mirth, he doesn’t even care.

* * *

Claire has a half hour before she can finish up her latest batch of profiteroles, so she heads for the little temporary space that serves as her office when she’s here.

It’s only been a few minutes when there’s a little tap at the half-open door, and she looks up from her computer to find Brad leaning against the frame, grinning at her crookedly, although something about his posture looks a little less casual than he probably means it to be.

Interesting. Brad’s pretty transparent, and she can read him better than he probably realizes. “Hey. You headed home?”

He nods. “Pretty soon.”

He’s hovering. And he looks hesitant. Which really, really isn’t Brad Leone. Odd. He’s been a little weird all day, although she’d initially chalked it up to jetlag.

“You need something?” she prompts.

“I, uh.” Brad runs one hand through his hair, looking at the floor, the wall, anywhere but her. “Got you something.”

He hands her something wrapped in brown paper, which she takes hesitantly. It’s more his weirdness that’s confusing her than anything else. And they’ve been around each other in the kitchen all day, so why on earth did he wait until –

The paper falls open and she gasps. “Oh, Brad.” She unfolds the length of soft, filmy fabric, delicate white with a beautiful, intricate, orderly pattern of flowers and vines in vivid red and pink and blue and gold and green. “Brad, this is _gorgeous_.”

“You like it?”

“_Like_ it? Brad –” She’s at a loss for words, trailing her fingers gently over the delicate embroidery. “You got this in Budapest?” He nods, hands shoved in his pockets. “Why?”

She doesn’t mean it to sound so accusatory; the question just escapes her, because since when does he just show up and give her such beautiful things, completely out of nowhere?

“I dunno.” He shrugs, still looking uncomfortable. “I just – saw it, you know? And it made me think of you.”

Something flips in her chest, something warm and soft and liquid. Because he looked at something so pretty and colorful and soft and he _thought of her_, and he’s trying to play it off, but instead of just giving it to her this morning when she walked in, he waited till now. He waited for a private moment, so there’s no one else here to watch them, and that wasn’t on accident.

It feels like grade school, like he’s finally worked up the nerve to do something other than tug her metaphorical pigtails, and she can’t help herself.

So she pushes out of her chair, stretches up on her toes (jeez, he’s so tall), and wraps her arms around him in a warm hug.

He hugs her back tightly, enveloping her in his arms, and it’s a perfect fit, his chin resting atop her head, her cheek pressed against the warmth of his chest. It’s warm and she feels safe and wrapped up and _loved_.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, tugging him down just far enough to press a soft kiss to his cheek. “I love it.”

He’s beaming as he leaves, his whole face alight. Claire bites her lip, looking down at the scarf. She still can’t stop smiling. Because behind all the bluster and energy and chaos, Brad’s as sensitive as anyone she’s ever met. It’s not often she sees him so vulnerable. And the way he smiles at her –

She hums, reaching for her apron. She has profiteroles to finish. And a brand-new scarf to wear home when she’s done.

* * *

When she walks into the kitchen the next morning, she sees the moment he looks up and notices her. His face lights up as he sees the scarf around her neck, bright and colorful, and Claire feels something open up between them, something slow and creeping and totally, completely inevitable.


End file.
